I RETURN to London two days later, relieved to be back in my routine. My safe place. My little London flat with the creaky pipes and the dim lighting, since I never seem to get any direct sunlight through the windows. I have more than enough money to live in some fancy townhouse in the more affluent part of the city, but I chose to live in the neighborhood where the theatre is. It’s older and quaint and some things are run down but almost lovingly. Like your grandmother’s cherished treasures in her home, it’s older yet well-kept.
Much like the theatre. Being part of the London Dance Company, going from the school to the performing troupe, is not as much of an honor as I once thought it was. While LDC is one of the most well-known and respected companies in the UK, it’s definitely not the best. That would be the Royal Ballet, who Gideon dances for now.
Yes, my Gideon. We’re still friendly and talk often. We even get together for a meal on occasion, though it mostly consists of us picking at our salads while we share a cigarette or five while eating outside.
I picked the terrible habit back up but only on occasion. It gives me that buzz I need. And it makes me forget to eat, which is also what I need. I can quit any time.
I swear I can.
Luckily my brother’s wedding was scheduled during a break in our performance schedule, but now we’re back to performing five nights a week and two on Saturday. It’s a lot. I’m exhausted, but I’m also completely preoccupied and unable to think about the things that bother me that keep me up at night.
Or people that bother me.
Specifically men.
Specifically Weston.
Mother’s words didn’t help. She put ideas in my head I couldn’t shake. Ideas that made me toss and turn in my old bed in the Newport house, the sound of the ocean pounding the surf keeping me from falling asleep.
Well, the ocean and my thoughts. All of them having to do with West. Looking too good to exist in that damn gray suit. His hair in casual disarray, his eyes just as dark and all-seeing as they always were. The amusement on his stupidly handsome face when I said something that made him laugh.
I was trying to be mean and he laughed at me. God, I hate him.
I do.
Getting out of the States was the right thing to do. I wish I would’ve left sooner. The moment I returned to London, I threw myself back into practice. Back into the rigorous training and the constant time in the studio. At the barre. On the stage. Going through the same moves over and over. Running through the same routine again and again. The music on repeat in my head, in my body, in my sleep.
Muscle memory is a wondrous thing. I hear the song start to play and my body shifts into position.
The first night we’re scheduled to perform, I arrive at the theatre and head to the dressing room, stopping short when I see the giant bouquet of flowers sitting on my vanity table.
One of the women in the dance troupe, who also happens to sit at the vanity next to mine, is grinning at me in the reflection of her mirror.
“Looks like you have a secret admirer,” Cressida says in her posh English accent.
I grimace, trying to ignore the nerves pinging in my stomach as I approach my table, my gaze never straying from the pale pink long-stemmed roses. I stare at them for a moment, realizing no one has ever sent me flowers before a performance before. Not since the recital days, when my father would bring me a bouquet and I would pose for photos under the hot lights afterward, my face drenched with sweat and my makeup smeared.
There have to be at least two dozen in this bouquet. Maybe even three. And they are absolutely perfect.
Tearing open the little envelope included in the arrangement, I read the card.
PINK ROSES WILL FOREVER REMIND me of you. Good luck tonight.
Xo,
West
“WHO ARE THEY FROM?” Cressida asks, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“An old friend.” I stuff the card back into the envelope and shove it into my bag, mentally cursing myself that I didn’t throw it away already. There is no reason for me to keep the card.
Absolutely none.
I get ready with a fierce determination that I haven’t felt in ages. Push myself to the limit on stage, dancing until I’m out of breath, throwing my whole body and soul into the performance. I’m not the lead, but I’m a secondary, and when the curtain drops, men and women leap to their feet, many of them shouting, “Brava!”
And when the curtains draw back and we bow to our beloved audience, flowers are gently thrown onto the stage, the majority of them landing at my feet. At the encouragement of the rest of the cast, I gather them up in my arms, bowing and smiling, my gaze running over the audience. Their nondescript faces, their mouths stretched into wide smiles. Only one isn’t smiling. A man.
He’s familiar.
All the joy from the performance leaves me in a gust and my shoulders fall when I see him.
Weston fucking Fontaine.
I look away, smiling at the other dancers, grateful when the curtain once again drops. My entire act deflates, a scowl forming on my face as I stomp my way backstage. I change out of my costume quickly, throwing on an old pair of sweatpants and a tank top that lie wrinkled in my bag, slipping on a pair of Birkenstock clogs that are lined with fur and keep my always cold, always battered feet warm.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I rub the makeup off my face with exaggerated jerks, ignoring the way Cressida stares at me, the concern in her eyes infuriating though I don’t know why.
I am a contradiction. I want to perform on stage, yet I don’t want anyone paying attention to me. I want to shine in the spotlight, yet I wish no one knew my name.
I make no sense, even to myself.
“Are you okay?” Cressida asks after watching me for long, most likely torturous minutes. I’m acting like a savage and I’m sure she notices.
“I’m fine.” I throw away the cotton rounds I used to remove my makeup, staring at my blank, boring face. It’s still always a shock to see myself after the makeup is gone. We wear so much when we perform, we’re downright plain when it’s gone.
Well, some of us aren’t plain. There’s the lovely English rose Cressida, who has naturally bright pink lips and the prettiest cheekbones. I sort of hate her.
No, I don’t. She’s sweet and caring, nothing at all like me and I’m just mad because the one boy—man—who I let toy with my heart is, once again, trying to toy with my heart, and I’d much rather take his heart and stomp all over it until it is nothing but a bloody lump that’s barely beating.
There is clearly something wrong with me, that I’m not happy that West sent me flowers. That he sought me out by flying clear across the Atlantic to watch me perform. He most likely is waiting for me and will suggest we talk, and I sort of want to tell him fuck you to his face in reply. How will he react? Will I make him mad? Will he leave me alone for good?
Do I want him to leave me alone?
No, a little voice whispers deep in my mind and I hate that voice so much.
“I’m fine,” I finally say, offering her a brittle smile.
She looks away, pretending to be preoccupied by her phone, and I say nothing. Just gather up my things—but leave the roses there—and flee the backstage area, pushing through a door that leads outside.
I normally walk home if the weather is nice and it’s not too dark, or I take the tube. Tonight is a tube night for sure, and I’m about to head toward the station when I hear a steady, slow clapping coming from somewhere behind me.
Coming to a stop, I turn my face up to the sky and close my eyes, quietly asking for strength. I should’ve known he’d find me immediately.
He always seems to—but only when he wants to find me.
Slowly, I turn to face him, standing up straighter, putting on my invisible armor. “Weston.”
“Carolina.” He stops clapping and I stare at him, hating how attractive he looks leaning against the side of a very expensive sports car, clad in dark gray trousers and a blue button down that’s open at the collar yet again. Why do I get so aroused by the sight of his neck and that tiny glimpse of his chest? Every time I see it, I want to put my mouth right there and kiss him.
Or bite him.
“What are you doing in London?”
“Business. Thought it was the perfect excuse to come see you.”
“We just saw each other.”
“It wasn’t long enough.”
“Funny how you want to see me now, after disappearing from my life for the last two years.” I start walking, my steps determined, my head held high. I can hear him follow me, his steps just as determined, irritation obvious in his deep voice when he speaks.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking the tube home,” I toss over my shoulder.
“I have a car. I can drive you home.”
“I am not getting into a car with you.” I start walking faster but he keeps up, the bastard. His stride is longer. I can feel him practically upon me, and I squeal when he snags hold of my wrist, wrenching myself out of his grip. I whirl on him, breathing so hard my chest is heaving. He backs away, holding his hands up in pure defensive mode.
“Carolina, come on.” He pauses, his gaze holding mine. “I need to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing left to say. You leaving two years ago without a word was enough. I get it. Go home, Weston.” I turn away and start walking, and this time, I can tell he’s not following. My footsteps are heavy against the sidewalk, the sound echoing, the sound of traffic in the near distance, and I blink hard, trying to staunch the tears from flowing.
“I want to explain what happened,” he calls to me.
I glance at him from over my shoulder, my steps slowing. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still want to explain though.” Another hesitation. “You get my flowers?”
“Yes. I threw them in the trash.” I turn to face him yet again, crossing my arms. I look a mess. Barefaced in clothes that probably need a wash. Still sweaty from the performance and desperate for a shower.
Yet he’s looking at me as if I’m the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, his gaze coasting over me, touching on each part of me. My hair, my face. My neck and chest. Drifting down the length of my body before he meets my gaze once more. “Please tell me you didn’t. Those roses cost me five hundred pounds.”
I may be wealthy, but at least I’m not foolish and wasting a ton of cash on flowers to a woman who may or may not hate your guts.
“I’m fairly certain you can afford them with all of your champagne money,” I retort.
The man grins. I swear he enjoys it when I’m rude. “I’ve missed you, Carolina.”
I hate what he just said. I hate worse how my heart leaped when he said it. “Not enough to call.”
The smile barely fades. “I was a fucking idiot.”
I snort. “Definitely.”
“I want to make it up to you.”
Impossible. “What about your girlfriend?”
“What about her?”
He doesn’t deny he has one still, and that’s even more infuriating.
An angry noise leaves me and I give him the bird just like I did at Whit’s wedding reception, before I turn on my heel and practically run down the sidewalk.
With his laughter chasing me all the way to the tube station.
